


only fools rush in

by chant_de_lune



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, F/M, Fluff, Uber
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 14:52:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11359716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chant_de_lune/pseuds/chant_de_lune
Summary: based on the tumblr prompt:"just drove a guy home from a bar and for the whole 15 minutes he talked about how excited he was to see his wife"





	only fools rush in

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bilexualclarke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bilexualclarke/gifts).



 

Roan did not mind being an Uber driver.

The pay was good, the work was easy, and his clients rarely talked more than necessary.   

However, that was not always the case.  

 

“Oh, what a fucking night.” Bellamy mumbled from the passenger seat, his head lolling against the headrest.  “Can’t wait to get home and see my wife.”  

 

Bellamy was his midnight Saturday client, a drunk high school history teacher unceremoniously dumped into Roan’s car by his friends Jasper and Murphy, claiming there was not room in their car to give him a ride back.  He had been silently driving to the address they had given him when Bellamy started talking.  

 

“My wife told me to go out with the boys, she wanted a night in.  I bet she’ll be in the bath when I get back.  God, that’d be fucking great,” he said, tilting the seat backward. He did not seem to be a loud drunk, just one without a filter.  

 

“What, joining her in the bath?” asked Roan dryly, suppressing an eye roll.  Bellamy chuckled.

“Yeah, it’s the best.  She’s so amazing, I love my wife.”   Roan sighed, deciding to give in to the conversation.  

 

“Does she have a name, or are you going to call her ‘my wife’ for the next 15 minutes?” he asked.  

“Clarke. Her name’s Clarke,” said Bellamy.  Roan nodded.

 

“How long have you been married?”

“Just over a year,” Bellamy said, grinning.  

 

“Ah give it time, that grin will fade,” Roan chuckled.

“Screw you,” muttered Bellamy, shifting in his seat.  “She was more of a pain in my ass when I met her.”

 

“Well, that’s good, I suppose,” grumbled Roan, glaring at a red light.  

“I was grading papers all day, I barely got to spend time with her.  Wish my fucking students knew how to give me a coherent thesis.”  Bellamy took his glasses off and clumsily wiped them on his shirt.  

 

“Well, you’re going home to her now,” said Roan as the light changed.  

Yeah,” Bellamy’s dopey smile returned.  “What about you? Wife, husband?”   

 

“Not interested in either,” said Roan, stepping on the gas a little harder.  Bellamy shrugged.

“I was that way once.  Then I fainted and fell into my fucking china cabinet,” he pointed to the scar on his lip.  

 

“Ouch.”

“Clarke was the one who gave me stitches.  I asked her out while I was on laughing gas.”  

 

Roan gave a small smile.  

“Did she say yes?”         

 

“Not until I went back to get them taken out.”   Roan turned a corner, his GPS pinging the halfway point.  

“I thought you said she was a pain in your ass when you met her.”

 

“She told me to shut up and let her use the needle.”  

“What were you saying?”

“She claims I was saying she had princess hair, but I don’t know if that’s the truth.”  

 

Roan snorted.  The conversation petered off, and he prayed, _prayed_ that Bellamy would stay silent, until –

 

“She’s so soft and warm, God tonight’s awfully cold, isn’t it?”   

Roan rolled his eyes.  

“I supposed November’s cold here if you’ve never been up north.”

 

Bellamy shuffled in his seat, his arms folded across his chest.  Roan made no motion to turn the heat up.  Five more minutes, no point in letting him get cozy.    

“I hate the cold. But it’s nice to be able to hold her without dying of heat.”  

 

 Roan grunted, really wishing he had thought to turn on the radio.  NPR would be better than this babbling fool.  

Finally, he pulled up outside the apartment duplex building given to him by Murphy.   Bellamy got out, giving him a short wave.  

 

“Do I have to pay you?” he said, leaning unsteadily on the uneven curb.  Roan shook his head.  

“No, your friends covered it.  Have a nice night in with your wife.”                       

 

He pulled away, mumbling to himself about a night alone with scotch and House of Cards.

 

* * *

 

In Bellamy’s college days, it was often hard for him to stumble into his third-floor dorm after a night drinking.  Fortunately, he and Clarke lived on the first floor of the duplex, so he entered with minor stumbling.    

“Clarke?”  he called out.  

 

“In here!” he heard from the bathroom.  He grinned, taking his coat and shoes off by the door.  He went into the bathroom and chuckled at the sight of Clarke covered in bubbles.  A warm lavender chamomile scent wafted with the steam, making Bellamy feel relaxed.   He reached for the hem of his henley and pulled it over his shoulders, weaving on his feet slightly.   

 

Clarke started laughing, a sound as warm as the bath.  Bellamy leaned forward once he was shirtless and kissed her over the rim of the tub.  

“I’m coming in,” he slurred, unbuckling his belt.   Clarke shook her head, still laughing.  

 

“Bell, you’re drunk, sweetheart.”  

“I am,” he paused for another kiss.  “I’m drunk, and I want to hold my wife.”   He slid off his pants and boxers, sitting on the edge of the tub to take off his socks.  Clarke moved forward so he could settle in behind her.   

 

The water had not cooled, and with Clarke’s smooth body against his, Bellamy was groaning in pleasure.  

“You’re too old to be getting this drunk, Bellamy.” Clarke said, taking off his glasses as they started to fog. He snorted.  

“I’m 31, I’m not ancient.”   His hands lazily ran over her shoulders and chest before coming to rest on her rounded stomach.  

 

“How’s our little one today?”  he whispered, kissing the spot under her ear that made Clarke tilt back against him.  

“Good.  Asked me for onion rings, but I was able to say no.”  Bellamy hummed happily and hugged Clarke tighter, the motion sending little ripples in the bath.   

 

“Who drove you home?” she asked.  

“Monty called me an Uber. Driver was a little unfriendly.”

 

“Really?”  Clarke raised an eyebrow.  “You can be quite frosty yourself around strangers.”  

“I think I was babbling to him.  I didn’t mention this though,” he shrugged, rubbing the curve underneath the swell, his fingers grazing her thighs.  Clarke bit back a moan.    

 

“That’s good,” she mumbled, her hands resting on either side of her navel.  The bump was still small enough to keep concealed under a sweatshirt.  Soon she would switch to maternity clothes, and the cat would be out of the bag.   

“We’re telling them next Friday? After your checkup?” Bellamy asked, nuzzling against her neck.  Clarke hummed, nodding her head.   

 

After a few more minutes of blissful lounging, the water started to cool.  Bellamy drained the tub while Clarke got him a glass of water and advil.  

They settled into bed, Bellamy resting his head on Clarke’s chest.  She toyed with the curls on his head.

 

“Going to sleep naked?” she teased.  Bellamy lifted his head and kissed her soundly.  

“Once I sober up more, I’m making love to you.  No point in putting on clothes.”   


End file.
